Evenin’ drifters and dreamers,
I set up camp today under a rusted-out billboard what used to sell cigarettes to ghosts. Sky’s been weepin’ since dawn, not full-on cryin’ but mistin’ like a drunk with somethin’ heavy on his chest. The crows were louder than usual this mornin’—a sure sign the veil’s thinnin’. So I lit up the trash fire and poured a lil’ creek water into the sacred beans, stirrin’ slow until the steam spelled the stars.
Trash fire meditation took hold just after noon. I sat cross-legged ‘til my knees creaked like old railcars, eyes squintin’ at the flames ’til they blinked back. Saw visions. A man wearin’ two watches but no time, a raccoon carryin’ a gold tooth in its mouth, and a train that never stopped—but it only ran backward.
That’s when the cans started hummin’.
Twelve of ‘em, arranged in a ring like the elders taught me, one for each sign of the zodiac. Their tin voices whispered secrets of the day—some sweet, some sharp as busted glass in a boot heel.
Gemini’s can foamed at the lip. That means dual trouble. Y’all Geminis better not try to charm both sides of a love triangle today—it’ll end with someone’s bindle burnin’.
Leo’s tin caught a spark and flared gold—bold luck comin’, but only if you roar honest. No fibbin’ to yourself, even if the lie’s cozy as an old coat.
Pisces? Your can was full of fog. Mystery’s followin’ you like a hungry dog, so feed it a little truth before it starts diggin’ through your past.
Tonight, I’ll sleep with one eye open, the other dreamin’. There’s a howl in the wind I don’t quite trust. Could be a storm. Could be somethin’ else. Either way, I’ll be ready—got my stick, my cards, and the fire’s still warm.
May your shoes stay dry, and your path be lit by bottle cap stars.
– Hobo Harry, Keeper of the Cans
🜃
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